


You, me, Paris.

by clexatrash_af



Series: You, me. [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Paris, F/F, and also lexa's expense account, and economy class seats lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:19:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clexatrash_af/pseuds/clexatrash_af
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A delayed flight, a wedding, a restaurant, a night underneath the stars, infinities, and an umbrella.</p><p>Or, Clarke and Lexa in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asiangran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asiangran/gifts), [adreamaloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/gifts).



> 95% of the stuff in this fic is unrealistic, just warning you now. But hey, if I wanted reality I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. 
> 
> Also, BIG BIG BIG thanks to K and Grace, y'all are like this fic's Godmother and God granny

Let’s get one thing clear, Lexa shouldn’t even be here, in fucking _economy_ class on a thirty hour transatlantic flight with a stupidly long stopover at the absolute mess that is Charles de Gaulle airport. She’s been traveling nonstop for the past 3 weeks, closing deals with international clients all over the globe and bringing in obscene amounts of money. Really, with all she’s done for the fucking company, the least they could’ve done was fly her back in the corporate jet for her victory lap. _But no._

Oh, and of course she’s in the window seat to boot. _Great_. She just _loves_ the thought of giving impromptu lapdances to the other people in her row every time she wants to go to the tiny, cramped, _economy_ class bathroom. Seriously, fuck economy.

With a defeated sigh, Lexa quickly puts her small carry-on bag into the overhead cabin and plops down in the assigned seat, contemplating ways to murder the assistant who booked her this flight and get away with it.

 _Fuck it_ , Lexa thinks as she grabs a Sky Mall from the pouch in front of her, _at least she’s bought enough duty free booze to knock out an army of elephants_. She _was_ planning to use them as (obligatory) gifts for the other executives, but now she figures they’ll have to survive with wine from American duty free shops instead.

If there’s one comforting thing, it’s that the flight doesn’t seem entirely full, and there’s nobody in her row yet, so she hopes that maybe she’ll get all three seats to herself.

No such luck.

She’s halfway through the latest edition of Sky Mall and wondering how much junk she can expense on her company card when she hears the unmistakable shuffling of somebody stowing their luggage onto the overhead cabin.

Lexa internally curses, but she doesn’t look away from the glossy catalogue, hoping this person wouldn’t be the chatty type.

No such luck.

“Hi, I’m Clarke.”

“Lexa,” she says curtly, not looking up from the riveting selection of pet accessories available for purchase.

Clarke seems to get the message after that, taking the aisle seat and opening her own edition of Sky Mall.

Perhaps the Gods have finally taken pity on her because nobody else sits down in the middle seat. There’s one chair between her and Clarke, which means they won’t have to share armrests, at least.

By the time safety demonstrations and pre-flight announcements are done, Lexa’s read the catalogue cover to cover, twice. She knows they won’t start the onboard entertainment until cruising altitude so finds herself sighing heavily and falling back into the (massively uncomfortable) chair, hoping sleep will come and rescue her from this faux-leather cage.

No such luck.

Why she didn’t get some Ambien, Lexa will never know. Her one respite is the alcohol calling her name. As she reaches for her duty free bag, she finally takes a glimpse of the girl, _Clarke_ (weird name, but whatever floats her parents’ boats).

She’s pretty, not fantastically-out-of-this-world gorgeous, but _pretty_.

(Not that Lexa cares)

Her wavy hair is a bright shade of yellow, a sharp contrast against fair skin and azure eyes. It vaguely reminds her of a sunrise she once saw in Tokyo.

(Not that Lexa cares)

She’s wearing jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, looking every bit like a seasoned college student. Not that Lexa would know, she sped through her degree in three years and was recruited straight after graduation, working directly under the senior VP, a position she now holds. Lexa’s never had the “college experience” or whatever.

Turning her attention back to the selection, Lexa decides on a mini bottle of vodka (because she’s not about to chug a full-sized bottle of Dom Perignon in front of all these people), quickly uncaps it and takes a swig. The harsh burn down her throat catches her off-guard, and she can’t help the coughs that escape her mouth.

She’s about to call for a bottle of water when one appears directly in her line of vision. “Here.”

Lexa grabs it without thinking (because she would never consciously take a drink from a stranger, obviously) and downs several gulps before the burning subsides.

“Thanks,” she says softly, handing the now-empty bottle back.

“It’s no problem,” the girl, _Clarke,_ shakes her head with a smile. “I paid like seven dollars for this so I’m glad it helped someone.”

She has a nice smile.

(Not that Lexa cares)

 “Oh, I’m sorry-“

She’s about to reach for her wallet when the blonde cuts her off, eyes widening.

“No, no. I didn’t mean…you don’t have to pay me back or anything,” Clarke waves both her hands frantically, and one accidentally touches Lexa’s forearm (not that she cares). “Anyway, my mom paid for it, even though I insisted there’d be water on the plane,” she adds with an eye-roll.

“Well.” Lexa gives a polite smile. “Thanks, anyhow.”

“No problem.”

Clarke turns back to her reading material (now a worn paperback novel) and Lexa decides she’s had enough of the vodka for a while.

After flicking through the selection of entertainment and finding nothing of interest, Lexa resolves to giving sleep another try. She pulls down the window cover and reclines her chair back the maximum 2 inches (seriously, _fuck_ economy).

Thankfully, this time she manages to drift off into a light sleep.

When she comes to, it’s only three hours later, according to her watch. The captain announces something about flying over a sunrise. Good, they’ll probably serve breakfast soon if it’s morning. She’s starving.

Lexa’s down to two possible options for murdering her assistant when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Sorry, but could you open the window?”

Lexa doesn’t particularly want to. What she wants is to eat breakfast and hopefully sleep until they get to Paris, where there’s at least a Sheraton suite waiting for her. The blonde must’ve sensed her hesitation, because she continues talking.

“I’ve just…never seen a sunrise from an airplane before,” Clarke explains, hesitantly biting her bottom lip. (Not that Lexa particularly notices)

Lexa sighs, “We can switch seats if you want.”

“No, no, you booked the window seat. I’m sure you don’t want to miss the sunrise.”

“No, it’s fine.” Lexa waves nonchalantly. “I’ve seen many.”

It’s nothing special, she has no idea why people go gaga over it. Happens every day.

“If you insist…”

“I do.”

They shuffle around for a bit before Lexa’s settled into the aisle seat and Clarke the window seat, staring outside in wonder ( _like an excited puppy_ , Lexa thinks)

(Not that she cares).

* * *

 

“First time to Paris?” Clarke asks a little while later, halfway through her breakfast.

“No.” She doesn’t bother telling her that she’s not visiting Paris at all. Just a long transit.

Lexa’s eggs taste like rubber. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ economy.

“I came here to see my boyfriend, actually. We were supposed to go there together, before I found out he was cheating on me,” Clarke chuckles bitterly.

 _Fascinating_. Lexa’s bacon tastes like cardboard (how is that even possible).

“I mean, it’s supposed to be this super romantic place and it’s already paid for, so I figured why not just go. Right?”

The brunette snorts, “Sure, if you consider dirty streets, pickpockets, and packs of tourists romantic.”

Clarke blinks at her before a smirk appears on her lips. “Oh, so you’re one of _those_ types.”

“What type?” Lexa quirks an eyebrow, sipping her coffee.

“A cynic.” The blonde folds her arms in front of her chest smugly.

“I’m not a cynic.” It comes out a little more defensive than casual. Not that Lexa cares.

“Do you believe in love?”

_Really, though?_

“It’s not like God or aliens, Clarke. Love is a scientifically proven mix of chemicals in the brain, so yes, I believe in love.” She uses air quotes around the word ‘believe’.

“You’re a cynic, _Lexa_.” Clarke just says with a victorious smile plastered on her face.

Lexa gives up trying to defend her position (because she doesn’t care).

After breakfast, she tries to get some more sleep, but her brain refuses to cooperate. To her left, Clarke is back to her paperback novel. It’s a collection of love poems, she notices.

_Of course it is._

“You’ll like Paris.”

Clarke looks up. “What?”

“The Eiffel tower, Champs-Élysées, Le Louvre. You’ll like it,” she says airily.

A hint of a smile. “I know.” A pause. “Do you speak French?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I don’t need to. I have a translator, plus everyone here speaks English. Do you?”

Clarke makes a pinching gesture with her thumb and forefinger. “A little.”

“You’ll have no problem finding a French guy, then.”

_Well that’s a fucking appropriate thing to say to a stranger she still has to spend another 4 hours with._

“Or girl.” Clarke adds pointedly after a few moments, and there’s an unmistakable roguish glint in her eye.

(Not that Lexa cares)

“Right.”

Clarke looks pensive for a moment, like she’s choosing her next words carefully, turning more fully and leaning back against the window. “Maybe you just haven’t been with the right person.”

Lexa halts, eyeing her companion curiously, wondering if this was her way of flirting (not that it matters, because she doesn’t care). “Or maybe I have and it just wasn’t good?”

“Maybe,” Clarke relents softly before turning back to her book, which suits Lexa just fine.

When dinner comes around, Clarke’s finished her novel and Lexa’s sat through some horribly clichéd romantic comedy with possibly the cheesiest dialogue she’s ever heard. Fortunately, there’s only roughly two more hours until they land in Charles de Gaulle, and she can practically hear the comfortable hotel bed calling her name. The Sheraton isn’t the greatest hotel ever, but by now, Lexa thinks that any soft horizontal surface will do fine.

She’s barely started on her beef dish when Clarke speaks up. “You know, I bet I can change your mind about Paris.”

The claim is so unexpected and _outlandish_ , it almost makes Lexa laugh. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” the blonde answers between bites of food. “My boyfriend hated Paris, too, but I convinced him to give it another shot.”

“Your _ex_ -boyfriend?” The words slip out before she can stop them, and Lexa instantly feels like a horrible person when she sees Clarke recoil, if only just a little bit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s okay, you’re right. Forget I said anything.”

Lexa almost says something then, but she figures it’d be better to keep her mouth shut before she inadvertently does more damage to this girl’s confidence.

The rest of the plane ride goes by in silence.

When they touch down, the captain announces that it’s 6pm local time, and Lexa sees that it’s raining rather heavily outside. “Shit,” she curses under her breath.

“What’s wrong?”

The question almost makes her jump in surprise. She hadn’t thought anyone would hear. “Oh, nothing. I just didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“You can have one of mine,” Clarke says offhandedly, “my mom made me take an extra umbrella for some reason.”

Lexa shakes her head. “No, no, I can’t.”

“Yes you can, it’d just weigh me down anyway.”

 _Well, it is pouring outside, and Lexa doesn’t want to ruin this thousand dollar outfit, after all_. “If you insist…” she says with a light smile, echoing their earlier conversation.

“I do,” Clarke grins back.

“I wish I could pay you back somehow,” Lexa finds herself saying, and meaning the words for once.

“It’s nothing. You gave me your seat, remember?”

Silence again, and then (God knows why): “Your ex is an idiot.”

Clarke laughs. “I know, right?” She has a nice laugh. _It’s bright_ , Lexa thinks, _it suits her_.

The captain’s voice announcing their successful landing in Paris snaps them both back to reality. Lexa moves to stand up and open the overhead cabin. In what she assumes to be Clarke’s carry-on, she can clearly see two umbrellas.

“Which one do you want off your hands?”

“The yellow one’s my favourite, so I guess you can take the blue.”

“Yellow umbrella. Okay,” Lexa pauses to give a pointed smirk at the blonde, “Clarke _Mosby_.”

Clarke’s cheeks go red as realization dawns on her. “It’s a good show.” She shrugs.

“Sure, if I ever have kids I’m definitely going to tell them about how I slept my way through half the city, too.”

“He didn’t sleep with _half_ the city…A third, maybe,” she adds with mock-pensiveness. “Wait, you watch the show?” She questions, incredulous.

“Yes, I do own a TV,” Lexa replies distractedly.

“I thought you didn’t believe in love?” Clarke asks with a coy smile once the brunette’s sat back down, umbrella in hand.

“First of all, I did say I believe in love. Weren’t you listening?” – Clarke rolls her eyes at this – “Second of all, I didn’t know you needed to believe in anything to watch a TV show.”

“Right, sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Clarke’s about to give another no doubt snarky retort when the doors open and people start disembarking the plane, so she doesn’t. Instead, her thoughts shift to her travel plans and what she’s going to do by herself in this foreign city for an entire week.

They end up being two of the last passengers to get off, and Clarke just follows Lexa absentmindedly. When they near the luggage collection, Clarke gets a sudden jolt of _something_ that makes her grab the other girl’s wrist.

Lexa’s skin gets terribly warm where they touch.

(Not that she cares)

“Okay, one time only offer.” The words come out of their own accord, because Clarke certainly didn’t plan on soliciting a stranger she just met not even 24 hours ago. “You, me, Paris.” She motions around them with a flourish.

Lexa actually, _actually_ considers the offer. Clarke is _pretty_ and she can carry a conversation, which is more than she can say for a lot of other people she knows. But then she remembers her flight leaving in 9 hours, at the end of which is another 90-hour work week waiting.

“Perhaps another time. I’m just transiting here.” It feels like kicking a puppy when Clarke’s face falls, and Lexa maybe cutthroat and vicious (Forbes’ words, not hers), but she’s not _cruel_. And she does have a good 8 hours before she needs to be back here for boarding. “How about dinner? There’s this place I think you’ll like.”

Well, everyone’s got a soft spot for _puppies,_ especially when their faces light up like that.

* * *

 

“Where to?” she asks, gesturing to the blonde’s luggage. She’s left her own duty free bag and carry-on (with umbrella) in luggage storage, taking only some cash, credit cards, and a backup battery for her phone.

“Oh, the Hilton.”

Lexa curves a brow. “So not a broke college student, then?”

Clarke shrugs. “My mom paid for the whole trip.”

Lexa doesn’t pry any further on the way to the hotel. She does, however, insist on paying the cab fare (“I’ll just expense it”). By the time they arrive at their destination, the rain’s all but stopped.

Clarke asks about it on the elevator up to her floor. “You look really young for someone who has an expense account.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. Success is always a compliment.”

A slightest of blushes runs up her neck as she voices her thanks. The elevator doors open moments later.

They make their way to Clarke’s room wordlessly, and Lexa thinks maybe she should’ve waited in the lobby instead. It feels slightly creepy, coming up to her room like this, because of the _implications_.

Still, she mirrors the blonde’s apparent nonchalance and even helps her wheel her luggage inside the room.

“Should I change for dinner?” Clarke wonders aloud, looking down at her outfit once she’s set her luggage away neatly.

“If you want,” Lexa answers breezily with a wave, other hand checking her phone for messages, “the restaurant’s dress code just says not to wear shorts and tank tops. Nothing against university clothing.”

“They have a dress-code?!”

Lexa chuckles. “This is Paris, there’s a dress code everywhere.” She ponders for a second before adding, “Actually, don’t worry about changing. I like your sweater.”

So Clarke doesn’t.

She does, however, remember to bring her yellow umbrella along, just in case it rains again.

* * *

 

They travel mostly in silence. Clarke makes small talk with the cab driver in French, and Lexa reads the news blasts she’s missed while in the air.

“So how long have you two been married?”

The question startles Lexa. “What?”

“You and your phone here.” Clarke gestures between her and the device. “You seem very happy together, practically attached at the hip.”

“Business never sleeps,” she states simply before turning her attention back to the screen.

Clarke just rolls her eyes before continuing her chat with the driver.

The taxi slowly comes to a slow stop, and surely this can’t be right because they’re right in front of the _Eiffel tower_. All lit up like a giant, steel Christmas tree.

“Finally. I’m starving.” Lexa reaches into her pocket, hands over a hundred euro note, and pushes the door open in the most lackadaisical manner possible.

Clarke steps out of the cab slowly, still in awe at the spectacle before her eyes. “We’re eating here?”

“Yes, you’re wonderfully observant.”

“Where?” Clarke breathes out, looking up to the very top of the structure. From here, it looks like part of the sky itself.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Lexa steps ahead, holding out her hand, which Clarke takes. It’s all spectacularly casual. Like they’ve been doing this for years.

They walk to the entryway of a restaurant, up the private elevator of said restaurant and into a brilliantly swanky dining area. All plush carpeting, floor to ceiling glass windows (to show off the view, no doubt), intricately carved wood panels and tasteful furniture.

Everything screams decadence and class and _wealth_. Clarke herself is no stranger to money, having an engineer father and surgeon mother, but here, in her NYU sweatshirt and faded jeans, she feels like a fish out of water.

“Don’t you need a reservation for places like this?”

Lexa smirks. “My company brings this place so much business, we practically own a stake here.”

A fact which is apparently very true, because the maitre d’s face lights up in recognition when he sees the two of them.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselles.”

“Bonsoir, Gus,” she greets him with a polite kiss on the cheek. “Ca va?”

“Ca va bien. Your usual, I presume?” He speaks English with the slightest of lilts, and it sounds like music to Clarke, honestly.

Lexa nods, and soon enough, they’re being led to a table in a quiet corner of the room, though still with very much a breathtaking view of the city below. From here, the streets are all lit up so bright, it almost looks like a whole galaxy of stars condensed into a single canvas.

“You can take a picture if you want,” Lexa’s voice is laced with amusement, snapping the blonde out of her reverie. “They encourage it here.”

“No, I’m good.” In reality, she’d much rather sketch the view than photograph it.

“Okay.” Lexa nods before changing the subject. “Any food allergies?”

Clarke shakes her head no, taking her seat across from Lexa.

“Oh,” – she hesitates – “You’re over 21, right? You can drink?”

“I’m actually 12,” Clarke deadpans. “Yeah, I can drink.”

Lexa ducks her head with a smile. “Just making sure.”

The food comes soon after (apparently Lexa’s ‘ _usual_ ’ is a 6-course tasting menu with their respective wine pairings).

“You come here often?” Clarke queries over a _divine_ lobster dish.

“For business, mostly. It’s where I close deals with our European clients.”

“What’s your success rate?”

Lexa chortles, pausing to take a sip of her red wine. “ _Please_. I always close.”

“Always?” Clarke tilts her head and gives a suggestive smirk.

Okay, she’s definitely, unmistakably flirting now.

(Not that Lexa cares).

“I didn’t mean” - she takes a quick breath, steadying herself (too much wine already?) - “I thought you’d like the view, and I like the food here.”

“I’m sure you do.” Clarke grins from behind the brim of her glass.

“You do like the view, right? Sitting in the Eiffel tower, looking down at the city of lights below. That’s your thing, no?”

“Yeah,” she replies, giving Lexa a deliberate once-over before licking her lips briefly. “I love the view.”

Lexa takes another sip of her wine, and then two more.

Apparently tipsy-Clarke is also (extremely) flirty-Clarke.

This goes on for a while, and to be perfectly fair, Lexa has to commend the girl’s astounding knack for making anything a sexual innuendo.

* * *

 

“How’s the weather in New York?”

“ _Hot_.”

* * *

 

“Do you like university?”

“It’s been _experimental_.”

* * *

 

“Favourite word?”

“It’s on the tip of my tongue…it’s coming, it’s coming…”

* * *

 

~~“What do you like to eat?”~~

Well, Lexa only has herself to blame for that one.

* * *

 

By the time they’re finished eating, Lexa is delightfully buzzed, and Clarke looks just _slightly_ drunker.

The bill comes, and the blonde snatches it away before she can reach for it.

“Woah.” Her eyes widen in childlike surprise as she reads the numbers. “You’re, like, super rich,” she giggles. Actually fucking _giggles_.

So perhaps a _lot_ drunker.

Lexa tries to grab the bill back, but Clarke seems to have it in some sort of death grip, so she just settles for handing the waiter her platinum card. She has a good estimate of the price in her head, but it’s not like there’s a limit on the card anyway.

“Expensing it?”

Lexa just nods.

“You should just marry your expense account.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, but it’s not too far from the truth. She’s as good as married to her career. A wonderful, doting, ever so faithful wife at that.

* * *

 

The air has a slight chill to it when they leave the restaurant, and Lexa gives up trying to lead Clarke around after a while, so she follows instead. The girl’s hand is incredibly warm in hers, and she finds herself enjoying the feeling more and more with each passing second.

The blonde asks for some directions from some locals in French, and Lexa can hear something resembling the word “park” so she guesses that’s where they’re heading.

She is accurate, although she’s not sure of their exact location. All of Lexa’s previous trips to Paris have been spent inside pricey restaurants, lifeless hotel rooms, and corporate meeting halls. She’s never had the time (or desire) to visit hole-in-the-wall cafes or quaint bakeries or…twirl around some random flickering streetlamp.

Yep. Clarke’s honest to God spinning around a large streetlamp with her left hand, yellow umbrella still firmly clutched in her right. Not even a properly _functioning_ streetlamp at that.

“Come onnnn,” she whines after two spins. “Lexaaa…whateveryourlastnameis.” Spin. “Or are you one of those people who don’t need a last name to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, like Beyonce?” Spin. “Tell me your last nameeee.” Spin.

“Clarke,” Lexa says sharply.

The blonde halts mid-pivot, eyes widening like a child seeing Santa for the first time. “Your last name is Clarke?”

“Come on.” Lexa beckons with a flick of her wrist. “Let’s get you back to your hotel room.” She points up at the dark clouds above, just as the first few drops start to fall. “It’s raining.”

“That’s why I have my umbrella here,” the blonde sing-songs before doing another loop. “So if we get married and I take your name, I’ll be Clarke Clarke,” she snorts. It’s kind of adorable (not that Lexa cares).

“You’ll get soaked,” Lexa warns, because the droplets are starting to become heavier and more frequent now. The other girl, thankfully, moves herself away from the streetlamp (after pouting) and opens up the umbrella over both their heads (which are still relatively dry).

“Kinky, Lexa Clarke.” She whispers loudly, accompanying it with an overt wink. “I like it.”

By the time they get back to the Hilton, it’s still only 9pm. Surprisingly early. Lexa calculates in her head and decides that she still has plenty of time to get a good night’s rest, even after getting Clarke safely into bed (because she’s not about to _abandon_ the girl in this state).

Unfortunately, calculations and real world situations vastly differ, as Lexa soon finds out. Not the getting Clarke into bed part, that was easy enough (she only had to take off her shoes and put a giant glass of water onto the bedside table for when she wakes). The hard part was leaving. As in she currently has a death grip around Lexa’s arm.

“No, don’t leave me,” the blonde murmurs quietly, eyes falling shut. “Stay.”

Lexa’s heart flutters ever so slightly at the words. _Needed_ , she’s used to being, but wanted? Well, that’s new territory. She decides she likes it, being _wanted_. Outside, the rain’s subsided once again, and through the window, Lexa can see a few of the brightest stars in the sky. This wouldn’t be the _worst_ place in the world to spend the night, and really, the grip on her arm doesn’t look to be budging in the slightest.

So she quietly takes off her own shoes, slides back into the bed and shuts her eyes. Next to her, the sound of Clarke’s steady breathing lulls her to sleep faster than any pill has ever done.

* * *

 

Lexa wakes up not much later. Her arm mysteriously wrapped around a still sleeping Clarke’s waist. Outside, the sky is still dark. All of a sudden, an idea pops into her head, and she fishes her phone out of her pocket to send a text. It’s the dead of night, but luckily, she gets a reply just as Clarke begins to stir.

“Does your phone know you’re just using it for its body?”

“You’re awake,” Lexa acknowledges softly, quickly putting her phone down and turning to see her companion rubbing her eyes lazily. “Feeling better?”

Clarke nods in reply, reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table and taking several large gulps. Lexa’s reminded of their encounter on the plane (the thought makes her smile, somehow).

“Thanks. For not leaving.”

Lexa chuckles. “Your grip is rather tight.” She looks down at her arm, which is now mysteriously free. “ _Was_ rather tight, I guess.”

“Sorry.” Clarke blushes.

“It’s okay,” Lexa tells her earnestly before taking a lighter tone. “Hey, if you want, we can go stargazing.”

“Right now?”

“Oui.”

Clarke’s eyebrows contort in confusion. “In Paris? I don’t think you can see any stars here.”

“You underestimate me.”

“Let me guess...you used your expense account to buy some stars?”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “You want to go or not?”

Clarke nods furiously.

“Good, because there’s a driver waiting downstairs.”

When the car comes to a stop not long after, Clarke realizes that they are, indeed, going to look at the stars, just not ones in the sky. They both say a quick thanks to the driver before getting out.

“A planetarium. Clever, I’ll give you that.”

Lexa shrugs, opening the trunk to grab a couple of blankets and two large thermoses. “I try.”

“Seriously, how much do you even make? Six figures?”

“Seven, actually.”

“Of course you do.”

Instantly as the doors open, Clarke is greeted by a kaleidoscope of light. The swirling hues of the nebulae, shimmering brightness of constellations, the dim glow of the milky way, and everything else in between. All condensed into a massive, seemingly endless overhead concave dome, under which they are the only two people standing.

Clarke wanders around the room while Lexa sets a blanket on the ground. It’s not particularly cold, and the space is air-conditioned anyway, but what’s stargazing without hot chocolate and blankets?

* * *

 

“Orion.” Clarke points out when they’re settled, lying side by side, arms barely touching. “Named after the most arrogant hunter.”

Lexa scoffs, “You’re saying you think I’m arrogant?”

“No,” Clarke replies breezily, smirking. “I’m just saying he ended up being killed by a tiny little scorpion, that’s all.”

* * *

 

“Leo. A lion with impenetrable skin.”

“So you think you’re impenetrable?”

“Your words, Clarke. Not mine.”

* * *

 

They talk about other things, too.

“What do you study?”

“Nothing, I just graduated. Taking the MCAT soon.”

“You sound amazingly excited.”

“Someone once told me that mockery is not the product of a strong mind.”

“Sounds like an idiot.”

Clarke laughs. “Yeah. Anyway, I’m following my mom’s footsteps, so...”

“Let me guess, you have some other secret passion you want to pursue?”

“Maybe…”

“What is it? Music? Writing? Art… Oh, I should’ve guessed you’re an artist.”

“I actually wanted to sketch the view, back at the restaurant,” she admits sheepishly.

Lexa sits up, careful not to disjoin their hands. “Why didn’t you say something?” – Clarke shrugs – “Go back there tomorrow and ask for Gustus, you saw him yesterday. He’ll let you stay as long as you want. I’ll make sure he knows you’re coming, don’t worry.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

* * *

 

“Admit it, you’re enjoying Paris.”

“It’s _okay_ , so far.”

* * *

 

“Sometimes, when I go to Starbucks, they spell my name ‘C-l-e-r-k’ when I tell them I’m Clarke with an e.”

Lexa laughs.

* * *

 

“That’s Canis Major. It has the brightest star in the sky, Sirius.” Clarke gestures to a few interconnecting dots near one end of the dome after a minute of easy silence. Lexa hums contentedly in response Clarke’s body is warm and soft against hers. “It represents Laelaps, the fastest dog in the world, said to be able to outrun anything. One day, it was sent to chase after a fox that was supposedly destined to never be caught. They ran for _ages_. After a while, Zeus got bored or something and casted them both into the stars.”

Lexa briefly thinks about how it’d feel to chase something that can never be caught. Her jaw clenches at the thought. _It’s just a story_ , she reminds herself firmly.

When she turns her head, Clarke has this _look_ in her eyes that makes Lexa’s head spin. She looks like she wants to-

“Clarke,” she whispers, dodging the blonde’s gaze, “if we kiss, this becomes real. Do you understand?”

“You’re real.” Clarke gently pokes at Lexa’s chest with her index finger. “I’m real.” She points back at herself.

Lexa opens her mouth to protest. “I have a- “

Clarke shakes her head fiercely, placing a hand against her mouth. “Just…just stop talking.” She leans forward, and for a brief moment, Lexa’s eyes flutter close, but she catches herself just in time to back away, the slightest of retreats. The blonde’s breath still warm on her lips.

There is a flash of hurt in Clarke’s eyes when they open, and it makes her chest _ache_. Contrary to popular belief, Lexa does have a heart, and it is made of neither ice nor stone. It simply doesn’t beat for just anyone. _God_ , Lexa tries to remember, _how long has it been?_

“Pisces.” She finds her voice finally, looking back up at the faux sky above them, breathing in deep and slow. She can feel Clarke’s gaze boring into the side of her face. She can feel Clarke’s arm, still draped across her waist, hand warm on her hip underneath the blanket.

“The constellation?”

She nods. “There’s a story behind it.”

“The one with Aphrodite and Eros?” Her tone is a confused one, like she has trouble finding Lexa in the conversation.

“No, an old German legend” - Clarke tilts her head in curiosity, silently urging her to continue - “Once upon a time, there was an old fisherman named Antenteh. He and his wife were dirt poor, living in a tiny cabin by the sea. One day, he caught a fish that had magical powers, and it offered him a wish. Antenteh refused though-”

Clarke lets out a light laugh, breath tickling Lexa’s cheeks. “Because who’d want to mess with a talking, wish-granting fish, obviously.”

“Obviously. Anyway, when he came home, his wife got mad because she wanted a big house with shiny new furniture.”

“And an expense account,” Clarke adds pointedly.

“And an expense account.” She nods, a smile tugging at her lips. “So Antenteh came back, and the fish told him that everything would be taken care of. He came home to a massive mansion, expensive furniture, the whole nine. Then the wife decided she wanted to be a queen and have a palace instead. Again, the fish happily granted his wish. A week later, the wife wanted to become a goddess and live amongst the stars. This time, the fish became angry at the demand and took everything away, leaving them with nothing but the old cabin by the sea.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t be greedy because you’re leaving tomorrow?” Clarke speaks up after a few moments, turning her head to face the stars.

 _No_ , Lexa wants to tell her, _that’s not it at all_.

 _She’s_ the selfish one, wanting what she shouldn’t. Clarke has friends and family and and a passion and people who will undoubtedly fall in love with her. She has a _life_.

Someday, Clarke’ll meet the right person. Someone to spin around streetlamps with. Someone who’ll kiss her beneath the blinking taillights of airplanes, pretending they’re stars. Someone to hold her yellow umbrella while it rains. Someone to come back to Paris with.

All Lexa has is a big, empty apartment and an even bigger, emptier office. She has a _job_.

And yet…

Lexa can’t help but empathize with the fisherman’s wife when she sneaks a glance at Clarke. She, too, _wants_.

Clarke either doesn’t notice her staring or is pretending not to. Either way, Lexa is grateful. From here, she can study the ocean in the girl’s eyes, look at the ridge of her nose, envy the dip of her mouth, and watch all the way down to the hollow of her throat.

 _God_ , she **_wants_**.

 _But wanting and having are two different things_ , Lexa reminds herself. And right now, she has a flight to catch.

* * *

Clarke wakes up alone, back in her bed at the Hilton. Her yellow umbrella neatly placed in the corner of the room. There’s a note written in the hotel letterhead waiting for her atop the bedside table.

“ _Clarke,_

_You were right. Paris needs to be enjoyed with the right person. Remember to go back to the restaurant and ask for Gustus._

_-Lexa_

_P.S: My last name isn’t Clarke, unfortunately_.”

Clarke sighs, putting the note back. No number, no email, no nothing. At this point, Lexa might as well have been a figment of her imagination. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was on reddit the other day and this one dude was talking about the lives of the uber rich, which I found fascinating. He said that while it may sound incredibly corny, the top 0.0001% really do have trouble finding love, because money can buy EVERYTHING except time. Their time is insanely precious to them, and they aren't used to having to compromise (never having to wait for anything does that, I guess), which is what makes relationships harder. This is kind of like that, except I magnified it even more.
> 
> Aaaanyway, I'm not entirely happy with this, but eh.

_So if all we have is that glance in the window._  
_If all we have is till this train stops._  
_If all we have is till the sun comes up, till your lift picks you up._  
_And If all we have is till the day I die._  
_I'm ok with what we have._

_-_ Ian Thomas (iwrotethisforyou)

* * *

“What do you mean, delayed? Do you know who I am?” Lexa almost barks out.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing we can do. Engine difficulties.”

“So I’m stuck here for another day?” She snaps angrily, already knowing the answer.

“I’m sorr-“

“Is there an earlier flight?”

The man at the counter shakes his head, looking anything but sorry. “Unfortunately, all other flights to Los Angeles are fully booked. We can offer you a free night’s stay at any of the airport hotels, if you wish.”

She waves dismissively at him, other hand rubbing at her temple, hoping to appease the oncoming headache. God, _fuck_ this airport. “No, it’s fine. I’ll find a place.”

Lexa wanders into a café, ordering a quick latte as she pulls her phone to dial a familiar number. Her boss.

It’s picked up after several rings. “Lexa? I thought you’d be in the air by now.”

“Sorry, Anya. Flight’s been delayed for another 18 hours. Just letting you know.”

A chuckle. “Only you would call me at 10 o’clock at night to tell me that. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, and you left your umbrella in my office the other day. I gave it to your assistant. What’s his name?”

“Jasper,” she offers.

“Right, Jasper. Your umbrella’s with him.”

“Okay, thanks again.”

“No problem. Enjoy Paris.”

The phone call ends with a soft click, and it’s only now that she remembers her duty free bag and blue umbrella in luggage storage.

Clarke’s blue umbrella.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

 

Lexa’s nervous, for the first time in a long time, standing in front of Clarke’s hotel room, blue umbrella in hand. The note she left was…terse. She’s not even sure what she’s going to say once this door opens, if the girl will even recognize her in the harsh light of day.

(Okay, that was a touch melodramatic, since the sun hasn’t technically risen yet. But she did have a quick shower at the airport lounge and is now in a whole different outfit)

* * *

 

Clarke takes a long shower. The warm water cascading down her face a soothing comfort.

She wonders if she’ll actually go back to the restaurant in the Eiffel tower. Had yesterday been nothing but a long, elaborate, hyper-realistic dream? She remembers expensive wine and food that tastes like heaven. She remembers pivoting around a streetlamp post, as if reenacting a scene from some silent French film. She remembers stargazing in a city where the lights are blinding.

And, most of all, she remembers Lexa. Tall, dark, and mysterious. She’d wanted to kiss Lexa the entire night. She _still_ wants to kiss Lexa.

A knock on the door pulls her back to the present. It’s probably the room cleaners.

Quickly, she puts on a complimentary Hilton bathrobe and walks to her door, swiftly turning the handle.

* * *

 

“Hello, Clarke.”

“Hi again.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

No, none of the phrases she tries out seem adequate. Her palms feel unnaturally sweaty, and her heart beats like she’s been running a marathon the entire day.

But then it’s too late, because Clarke is standing there, dressed in a fluffy _white_ bathrobe. And her skin is so _fair_ and unmarred. And the warm lighting of the room hits her golden blonde hair like a literal fucking _halo_. Really, the only thing that’s missing from this picture are _wings_.

It’s silent for a few moments (minutes? Hours? Whole eternities?) before Clarke breathes out the four most amazing words in the entire universe.

“Thank God it’s you.”

And time as Lexa knows it _stops_.

Because Clarke flings both arms around her neck and kisses her like she’s been wanting this her _entire life_ and **_oh_** , her lips are impossibly soft and yielding and addictive.

Clarke’s tongue swipes at her bottom lip and _God_ , _Clarke’s tongue_.

Lexa’s hands grip at the girl’s waist, nails digging into the bathrobe. She briefly hears the door closing behind them and the umbrella dropped carelessly onto the floor.

Her senses are all overloaded with _Clarke_ and yet it’s still not enough. She is just like the fisherman’s greedy wife, wanting more and more and _more_.

When they break apart, Lexa almost pitches forward to try and keep the contact.

“I thought you left,” Clarke says between deep breaths.

Lexa shakes her head. “My flight got delayed. Engine failure.”

“For how long?”

“18 hours.”

“Let’s not waste any time then,” Clarke moves to untie her bathrobe, and it takes every last ounce of willpower for Lexa to stop her.

“Clarke-“

She’s _incredulous_. “You’re rejecting me _again_?”

“No. _God_ , no. It’s just“- Lexa closes her eyes briefly, steadying her thoughts – “We have time for that later, and the sun is going to rise soon, and since you loved it so much on the plane, I just thought that-“

Clarke cuts her off with a kiss, and she smiles into it. “I’ll make a romantic out of you yet.”

* * *

 

Hand in hand, they wander around the city aimlessly as the first rays of light appear, covering everything with a soft yellow glow.

And okay, Lexa has to admit, there’s something to be said about watching Paris rise from its night-time slumber, even if it _is_ a daily occurrence. Clarke won’t be, but she tries not to think about that as she grasps her hand just a bit tighter.

Soon, they stumble upon a bridge where the railings are covered with what looks to be hundreds upon thousands of locks, all with some form of handwriting on them, in countless different languages and dialects.

“I’m assuming you know the story behind all these locks?”

“Let’s pretend I don’t.”

Clarke just nods, launching into an explanation as if she were talking to someone completely new. “Basically, the locks represent unbreakable love. Whoever’s name you write on there along with yours will be destined to be with you forever.”

There’s just _something_ in her voice that tugs at Lexa’s chest, and she wonders if Clarke _actually_ believes what she’s said to be true.

Neither of them buys a lock, but Lexa wonders what she would write on one if she did. She wonders what Clarke would write on hers.

* * *

 

They end up in a quaint little café coffeeshop, tucked away in some hidden street corner for breakfast, ordering coffee and croissants (because it is France, after all).

“What are you thinking about?” Lexa finds herself asking. Clarke looks especially wistful, staring out at the world passing by outside.

“I’m just remembering this one maths period in high school.”

“Am I that boring?” It’s meant to be a joke, but neither laughs.

Clarke turns back to face Lexa, middle finger absentmindedly running along the rim of her cup. “The teacher was talking about how some infinities are bigger than other infinities, which I thought was the coolest thing. Like, the space between 1 and 2 is actually bigger than all the numbers in the entire universe.”

Lexa blinks once, twice, three times and she still doesn’t know what Clarke’s getting at. She’s not a fucking _philosopher_. “Right…”

“What I _mean_ is that if all we have is the next however many hours until your flight and you disappear back to your corporate job or whatever, then I’m happy with what we have.”

It’s not an entirely sad sentiment, but it feels so final, like a _goodbye_ already.

In another universe, maybe they’d exchange numbers and promise to meet up, fly back and forth between the East and West coast.

In another universe, Lexa would be a disgruntled barista in some hipster coffeeshop and she can misspell Clarke’s name too many times to count, just to keep her coming back.

In another universe, they’d see each other on Tinder and both swipe right, igniting a spark.

In another universe, they could be warriors who meet in battle.

Too bad, they’re stuck in this one. And in this one, they have sixteen hours and counting.

“So what do you want to do?” Lexa breaks the silence, finally.

“I don’t know,” Clarke shrugs. “Stroll around. Get lost.”

“You do realize that people don’t ‘ _get lost’_ like in the movies, right? I don’t want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere, thanks.”

Clarke glares at her playfully. “I thought you’d know this city like the back of your hand, what with all your business trips here.”

“First of all, I don’t come here _that_ often,” Lexa retorts, holding up her index finger with faux-indignation. “And second of all, my local driver knows this city like the back of his hand, and since you _insisted_ on me giving him the day off, if we get lost then it’s on you.”

Clarke pouts. “Fine, how about you pick something and then I pick something.”

Lexa ponders the proposal for a little while before an idea pops into her head, her lips forming a sly smile. “I can work with that.”

“But we walk, okay? I don’t want to spend half the day in the back of a car.”

“We’ll walk when it’s your turn to pick.”

“Deal.”

They shake on it.

* * *

 

They go to Le Louvre, where Clarke practically skips around the room, animatedly explaining the artwork to Lexa, who listens intently like she’s never been there before.

* * *

 

“Alright, what do you want to do now?”

“Let’s go back to my hotel.”

And Lexa has exactly zero qualms about doing that.

To her surprise (and yes, disappointment) Clarke leads them to the entrance of a ballroom, where there’s a relatively big, white sign with tasteful, loopy calligraphy on it.

The sign reads ‘ _Wedding reception for Mr and Mrs Bellamy Blake_ ’

“Well, I was thinking…” Clarke trails off, making vague hand motions.

“You want to…you want to _crash a wedding_?” The realization hits Lexa after a few moments. She momentarily wonders if that’d be a crime here, because it could get her kicked out and even _banned_ from the country. Something which she’s sure the board wouldn’t be too pleased about.

“Not yet.” She smiles coyly, gesturing to the smaller print at the bottom of the sign. “The reception starts in half an hour.”

“No.” Lexa crosses her arms, lips pursing together.

“But you said-“

“Not in that outfit.” A slight hint – no, an _implication_ – of a smirk.

“I did pack some formalwear, you know.”

“And shoes?”

Clarke looks down at her Chucks and realizes that Lexa’s right. They aren’t suitable for a wedding, and she didn’t pack any heels. It’s not like she’d planned on going to an event while here. It’s not like she planned on _any_ of this.

Lexa sighs dramatically, “Good thing we’re in Paris.”

* * *

 

Clarke follows the brunette into a fancy-looking boutique in middle of what she recognizes as Champs-Elysées boulevard. Inside, the first thing she notices are the rows upon rows of couture dresses, intricately designed heels, accessories, and so on and so forth.

Needless to say, it is a place catered exclusively to the most elite of the elites and doesn’t even _try_ to hide it.

One of the attendants practically glides towards the two of them, face lighting up like she’s seeing a dear old friend.

“Lexa!” She places a kiss on both the brunette’s cheeks. “Tu vas bien?”

“Oui, merci. This is Clarke.” Lexa slides an arm around her waist, palm resting at the small of her back. It feels _awfully_ couple-y, and Clarke finds herself liking it more than she probably should.

“Bonjour.” Clarke extends her hand, and the woman shakes it lightly.

“We’re going to a wedding together,” Lexa just says.

“Ah, I see. A dress, perhaps?”

“And shoes.”

“Of course.” The woman nods.

And it’s like lightning, how fast everything goes. Clarke is given dress after dress to try on in quick succession. Each one seeming more sophisticated and elaborate than the previous.

Finally, after God knows how many tries, Clarke thinks she’s found _the one_. It is a surprisingly simple strapless blue dress, cutting off at just above her knees. It brings out her eyes and looks like it was _made_ for her body.

The shop attendant seems to agree, because she gasps excitedly when Clarke exits the changing room.

“Magnifique! Lexa will love it, I’m sure.” She winks conspiratorially, to which Clarke feels her cheeks get hot.

“Merci.”

Picking out shoes is an easier process, thankfully. She’s just finished putting on a pair of designer stilettos before Lexa appears behind her in the mirror, changed into a sleek black and white suit, attention focused on her phone.

When she looks up, her mouth falls slightly agape as she flat out _stares_. “You look…” Lexa catches herself quickly, turning back down to the screen in her hand. “Good.” She clears her throat, going back to a nonchalant tone. “You look nice. Let’s go with this one.”

“You know,” Lexa starts as she hands over a credit card, “In Korea, they say that if you give your lover shoes, they’ll run away from you in them.”

Clarke doesn’t miss a beat. “So we’re _lovers_ now?”

Lexa looks a tad flustered, but just as quickly, her cool demeanour returns. “Well, technically _my company_ ’s the one buying you these…”

Clarke just laughs as she leads them out the door.

* * *

 

When they make it back to the ballroom, the reception is already well and truly under way. Around the room, ties have been loosened, heels taken off, champagne and conversation flowing freely. In the centre of the room, several couples of all ages are dancing, including what looks to be the bride and groom. They look young and deliriously happy, roughly around their mid-twenties, if Lexa had to guess.

Everyone’s enjoying themselves too much to pay attention to the two new arrivals (thankfully, because neither of them remembered to come up with a cover story).

They make their way over to a half empty table, grabbing two glasses of champagne on the way there. (“Because we need to blend in”)

“You guys are late,” a brunette sitting a few seats away half slurs, narrowing her eyes between the two of them, “did you two fuck in a supply closet?”

Lexa almost chokes on her champagne, covering it with a few coughs.

“No,” Clarke answers for them quickly, “We had some trouble with directions is all.”

“Right-o. So you guys are from Echo’s side, right? Because I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Yes, I’m a friend from college. This is my, um…”Clarke looks at her, hesitant for a moment. “This is Lexa.”

The girl nods at both of them. “Well, any friend of Echo’s is a friend of mine. I’m Octavia, by the way, Bellamy’s sister.”

Only now does Lexa notice the dress that’s obviously reserved for the bridesmaids.

They chat idly for a little while, before Octavia leaves to go to the bathroom. Well, Clarke chats with her. Lexa’s too busy worrying about being found out and getting consequently kicked out of the wedding (and possibly country) for trespassing or whatever this is.

“Relax,” Clarke tells her, taking a sip from her (third?) glass of champagne.

“I would be a lot more relaxed if we weren’t at some stranger’s wedding,” Lexa hisses through gritted teeth.

“You need to let it go. No wait, this is you right now” – Clarke makes an overt scowling face – “Conceal don’t feel, don’t let them knowwwww.” She sings in a deliberately off-key tone, making dramatic hand gestures as she goes. “Well now they knowwwww-”

And really, Lexa has no choice _but_ to shut her up with a kiss. She tastes like champagne and Lexa doesn’t want to stop. Ever.

“Better,” Clarke murmurs when they break apart.

After some more mingling (miraculously managing to avoid the bride, who is definitely _not_ a friend from college), they find out that Echo did, coincidentally, attend NYU around the same time as Clarke, though she’s a few years older. Her and Bellamy first met in Paris while on an exchange semester from their respective schools, so that’s why they decided to have their wedding here rather than back in the US.

It’s sometime after Lexa’s 3rd glass of champagne when the DJ plays the only French song she knows the name of, mainly because the tune was drilled into her brain by an overzealous daughter of a CEO a few years prior, who had wanted to become a street artist after seeing a 3-minute video on YouTube.

“I love this song.” Clarke hums along happily beside her, and even briefly sings along, a dreamy look in her eyes as she sways from side to side.

Lexa can’t help but be fascinated by this blue-eyed wonder in front of her, even if the only words she can make out are ‘ _la vie en rose_ ’ (which _is_ the name of the song, but still). She’s just about to ask for a dance when the song comes to an end.

 _Later. They still have time_.

* * *

 

“So are you going to try and score with the bridesmaids?” Clarke asks teasingly as they watch the bouquet toss from an empty table to the side.

(Clarke doesn’t want to even think about marriage for a long, long time. Lexa just scoffs at the word ‘bouquet’ altogether)

“You mean Octavia?” She points to the brunette from earlier who’s practically draped off a tall, muscular guy in the corner of the room. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Right,” Clarke nods. “I mean, it’s not like you’d be able to get their numbers anyway.”

“Excuse you, I can get _anyone_ ’s number,” Lexa says, indignant.

“Of course you can. I mean, nobody’s denying your attractiveness here.”

“And vast success, but you know what, I propose a bet.”

Clarke quirks a brow, finishing her latest champagne glass. “What did you have in mind?”

“I bet that I can get more phone numbers than you. From girls _and_ guys here. Without so much as a _‘hello’._ ” She looks especially pleased with herself at that last part, and Clarke can’t help but be intrigued.

“Alright. Deal. Most phone numbers without saying ‘hello’ wins.”

Lexa leans forward, arms propped on the table. “What does the winner get?”

Clarke smirks devilishly, leaning forward herself so their faces are barely half an inch apart, and Lexa forgets to breathe. “ _Whatever. They. Want_.”

* * *

 

Lexa moves with purpose as she gets up and begins…asking for other people’s glasses of champagne and sipping from them (Clarke watches with increasing interest from nearby) until she’s satisfied with their varying degrees of emptiness before returning them.

Soon enough, she’s gathered the attention of a small crowd of curious wedding-goers, including the groom himself. The bride, thankfully, has stepped outside with someone who looks like her mother.

“Can I ask you all to slightly wet your finger, please? Just dip them into your champagne is fine,” Lexa instructs coolly. Like she’s used to giving people orders.

There’s a few murmurs and giggles, but everyone obliges.

“Now, just run them along the rim of your glass, like this.” She demonstrates by tracing the edge of her glass with an index finger, creating a soft, almost musical, reverberation.

A few people’s eyes light up, as if seeing a magic trick for the first time. Everyone follows along, and it sounds a little like a disorganized champagne glass symphony, but not entirely unpleasant.

“Raven, right?” Lexa directs her question at a tall, pretty brunette, who nods in reply. “Try it for me, Raven.”

The girl does, and the note her champagne glass produces is slightly higher than Lexa’s.

“And you’re Monty?” An Asian guy, who also nods. His glass makes a low note.

One by one, she goes through the crowd and double-checks each person’s name (apart from the obvious Bellamy, of course) and the sound of their glass.

“Alright, so follow me. Ready?”

A round of murmurs in the affirmative before it quiets down completely.

“Lincoln.” She gestures to Octavia’s boyfriend, and a note sounds out as he runs a finger along the edge of the glass.

“Octavia.” Another note.

“Raven.” And another.

She gestures effortlessly – no, she _conducts_ \- amongst the huddled group and soon, it becomes a proper, recognizable tune. The musical chorus to _La vie en rose_. It’s mesmerizing to watch.

After the last note resounds around the room, they’re all looking at Lexa like she’s a certifiable Goddess who’s just opened up the doors to Heaven.

And really, Clarke has to admit that was pretty impressive. And _hot_.

“Eight, nine…ten numbers,” Lexa counts smugly, carelessly tossing each piece of paper or card onto the table. “It’s not too late to back out, you know.”

“Never.” Clarke shakes her head. “Watch and learn.” She grabs her glass of champagne and stands up, clinking it with a fork to get the whole room’s attention.

“Bellamy and Echo are a beautiful couple, don’t you think?”

Laughter and hums of agreement echo around the room. Clarke gets an unopened bottle of champagne and slowly peels off the cage and foil wrapping around the cork.

“Napolean once said that in success, one deserves champagne, and in defeat, one needs it.”

Various chuckles come from around the room.

(Seriously, this is the easiest crowd Lexa’s ever seen)

Clarke grabs a nearby knife and holds it against the side of the bottle, facing it to an empty area of the room.

“And while you may have lost your freedom today” – More laughter – “You both gained something far more valuable. Each other’s hearts. And that is the greatest success of all.”

She swiftly slides the blade upwards, sending the cork flying with a satisfying pop. Collective ‘ahh’s and ‘oohh’s  reverberate around the room before it quietens down again. Champagne bubbles come spilling out from the bottleneck, which she quickly pours into an empty glass and uses to raise a toast.

 “To Bellamy and Echo.”

“To Bellamy and Echo!” The crowd cheers.

Lexa looks on in disbelief as numerous people come up to Clarke to laud her wonderful speech.

(If by ‘wonderful’ they mean ‘cheesy’ then sure, Lexa agrees)

Or ask about where she learned the _sabrage_ technique of opening champagne.

( _Perhaps the pretentious academy of pretentiousness in the south of Pretentioustown?_ )

Or just straight up asked her out on the spot.

(She feels a pang of jealousy in her chest, but Clarke doesn’t have to know that).

By some _sick_ twist of fate, Clarke gets eleven numbers. Although to her credit, she doesn’t gloat, just finds Lexa’s hand and leads her straight out of the room, and Lexa thinks she may have gotten something out of this bet after all.

* * *

 

After dinner, they forget the deal they made at breakfast and just amble around the Seine. Clarke’s hand in hers is warm and firm, and it _almost_ feels like she doesn’t ever have to let go.

Somehow, they wind up talking about future vacations together (“The Boracay beaches are really nice in the summer”) and annoying friends and coworkers and parents, like it’s _nothing_. Like they are just another lovesick couple, going on a romantic holiday in the lovers’ capital of the world. 

Pretend, pretend, pretend. It’s something Lexa’s become masterful at. Feigning smiles, forging laughter, faking compliments and even feelings (flirting is an incredibly effective form of subtle manipulation, Anya’s taught her). She can lie without so much as a blink of an eye.

_Then why is it so hard all of a sudden?_

Lexa looks at her watch as they find themselves in front of the Eiffel tower. The seconds seem to tick faster and faster, as if taunting her.

_It’s time._

_No, not yet_. _It’s too soon._

(Some infinities are bigger than other infinities, Clarke had said. Only it doesn’t feel like an eternity _at all_ )

“Clarke, you trust me, right?”

_Just one more thing, then._

The blonde’s about to give a joking reply, but she must’ve sensed the seriousness in Lexa’s tone, because all she says is “yes”.

“Good.” She takes a black handkerchief from her pocket and brings it up to Clarke’s eyes, pausing to see any sign of hesitation in the girl’s eyes. There is none, so she pulls it firmly around Clarke’s head and twisting a firm knot, re-joining their hands when satisfied with her handiwork.

“Kinky.” She smirks, adjusting the blindfold over her eyes with her free hand. “Although you do realize we’ve been to this restaurant before, right?”

“No, Clarke. I have short-term memory loss.” Even behind the handkerchief, Clarke knows Lexa’s rolling her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware we’ve been here. I hope you remember where the stairs are, because I wouldn’t want you to fall on your face.”

Instead of swatting at potentially thin air, Clarke opts for squeezing Lexa’s palm so hard, she physically _yelps_.

“Oops, sorry.” Her voice emphatically saccharine. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

They go up the same entryway and elevator as the night before. This time, Clarke realizes there’s no ambient noise. No background conversations. No soft music flowing from the speakers. No footsteps of waiters carrying food.

They are alone. She briefly remembers the night before, Lexa telling her to come back here and sketch the view like she originally wanted.

Clarke’s heart swells in her chest. The gesture is nothing if not _terribly_ romantic.

Without sound, sight, taste or smell, the only thing Clarke can feel is Lexa’s hand in hers, thumb brushing gently against her knuckles. The single thing tethering her to this moment in time.

“Wait here, okay?” Lexa requests softly, removing her hand.

Clarke nods, hearing the beginning of _La vie en rose_ wafting from the speakers soon after.

It’s only after the song ends that she _realizes_. Pulling off the blindfold with a heavy sigh, she sees a brand new sketchbook and more than enough supplies, all laid out neatly on the floor.

Below her, the city of light shines brighter than ever.

_(infinity, noun:_ _Having no end.)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come at me on my tumblr, bruh](http://a-wild-clone-clubber.tumblr.com/)


End file.
